


Emilia Antonia

by aparticularbandit



Category: Jane the Virgin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/F, Prof/Prof
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2020-08-19 18:27:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20214274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aparticularbandit/pseuds/aparticularbandit
Summary: In which Luisa Alver is a well-known poet known only by the name Emilia Antonia who is hired by a college university for the prestige of saying she's teaching at their university (despite not being able to say which professor is her) and Rose Ruvelle is another new professor who is determined to get Emilia Antonia to fall in love with her (if she can only figure out who she is).AKA Luisa has an alter ego and Rose is the one pursuing instead of Rose having an alter ego who Luisa is pursuing.  But in prof/prof university au fashion.  ^^





	1. Prologue

“Emilia Antonia.”

Luisa looks up at the name and heaves a deep sigh. “I’d _really_ prefer it if you didn’t call me that. In fact, if you’ll look, it’s pretty explicit in my contract—” She points to one of the board’s many copies before flipping to the paragraph in her own. “It’s right here on page…four, it looks like.” Her lips roll together, and her teeth tug on her bottom one. “It’s actually really important to me that I maintain the separation from that name.”

The woman in the very center of the board – the headmistress by the name of Ms. Andel, if her research proves to be true – glances to the paper as Luisa speaks, skims the mentioned paragraph, and then looks back up. “Part of the reason we want to hire _you_, Ms. –” and here she hesitates, eyes flicking down to the paper again as she flips to the first page before returning back to Luisa, “—Alver, is for the credit our school will gain on having you here under that name.”

“I know, I know, the whole _students will flock to learn from Emilia Antonia_ thing.” Luisa waves one hand dismissively. “You’re hiring other people, right? Because there are, what, _three_ empty spots in your English department?” She leans back in her less-than-cushioned chair – the price of meeting in the student union building instead of one of the other halls. “Just _say_ you’ve hired me but that you won’t be releasing who I am as part of our contract. Then I’ll have my publicist release a correlating statement on my website so that people will know that I’m actually here. And _then_—”

“And then?” the blonde woman interrupts, resting her elbows on the table and leaning forward.

Luisa crosses one of her legs over the other. She’d been told she had to _look nice_ to meet the school board, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t look like herself. Her blue skirt’s a little longer than she likes, but it still shows an impressive amount of leg. She always _did_ like her legs. Showing them now is more of a power move, especially leaning back in her chair like she was, but she knows what she’s doing. She’s learned a few things in the past few years.

“You won’t have people enrolling just to take _my_ class because they won’t know which class is _mine_. They’ll have to take a class from each of the new hires _at least_ before they can say they’ve taken one of my classes, and some of them will be so determined they might think I’ve been here the entire time and take a class from _all_ of your English professors just to make absolutely sure. You get the prestige of having _Emilia Antonia_ teaching at your university with the additional money of keeping your mouths shut on who I am.”

As she speaks, the other members of the board nod amongst themselves, but the blonde woman in the center appears to be unconvinced. “You cost an awful lot of money for a new hire, Ms. Alver.”

“Well, technically _I_ don’t. _Ms. Antonia_ does.” Luisa shrugs once, brows raising. “But if it’s all the same to you, yeah. I do.”

“Your doctorate isn’t even _in_ English.”

Luisa nods, conceding the point. “And yet, you’re here, seeking me to join your team. You could hire me as one of your medical staff, and that would cost you less, but I don’t think it would get near the acclaim that having _Emilia Antonia_ would.”

“And how do we know that you’re actually her?”

This, of course, is the main problem. _Anyone_ could be Emilia Antonia. They could walk into any university and pretend they were her – not _anyone_, maybe, but anyone on her personal staff. This could be a huge ruse. Truth be told, Emilia Antonia could be a conglomerate of people instead of one person. It’s _not_, but without a picture on the back of her books to place her, without any public events, without any pictures on her social media accounts, how would they know?

Luisa hadn’t wanted a picture. She’d been very firm about that when she was published. She hadn’t wanted to be publically identifiable. By now, she’d had enough press and attention just by being related to her father and her brother without wanting that sort of introspection crossing her personal life over with her private one – or her public one, as the case may be – and that wasn’t even getting into the media attention she’d gotten during the whole _accident_. And, sure, it might look _odd_ for the university to hire a medical doctor who’d recently lost her medical license as one of their new English professors, but as long as no one did any particular research into her past, it wouldn’t be a problem.

She _knew_ that second bachelor’s degree would be good for something.

Besides – Luisa had _been_ a college student. When she was a doctorate, yeah, she’d cared about what university she was in, what specialist was teaching, who the staff was, but when she was an undergrad? She couldn’t have cared less. Now, that doesn’t exclude the possible students (or their parents) who _do_, but—

Well.

It’s worth a shot, isn’t it?

And Luisa can tell from the rest of the board’s reaction that they agree with her. Even if the headmistress herself seems a little wary of the whole thing, she would be overpowered by the rest of the board, and Luisa would be hired. Of course, there’s always the possibility that she isn’t, but she’s certain that _this time_ she will be. She can’t say why. It’s just a feeling she has, deep in the center of her chest, this absolute **certainty**.

Oh.

_She should write that down._

“You may leave, Ms. Alver,” the headmistress says, breaking through Luisa’s train of thought. “We have much to discuss. We will get back to you within the week.”

“See that you do,” Luisa says, the thought that she should write something down completely forgotten, and she stands, placing her purse strap over her left shoulder. She turns away, and as she walks through the back door, she expects that there are more than a few eyes following her ass. Well, that should only be expected. She is _gorgeous_ after all. And after the leg thing! She’d be more surprised if they _weren’t_ looking.

There’s another woman sitting outside the room, likely waiting for her own interview, and while Luisa probably shouldn’t distract her, there’s something about the way her red hair curls across her shoulders, something about the way the light glints a shade of gold off a few of the strands, that catches her eye. Luisa slumps into the seat next to her, loud enough to draw the redhead’s attention away from the book she’s reading, but the woman doesn’t seem to notice. She can respect that. Luisa sits up a little straighter so that she can peek around to see the title of the book, and between the woman’s manicured nails, she can just make out _Florettes_ followed by the author’s name in a fancy golden script.

Even with the name covered up, she knows who it is.

_Emilia Antonia_.

“You know,” Luisa say, conspiratorially, “I’ve heard the governors are considering hiring her as one of the new English professors.”

The woman’s eyes widen briefly, then she lets out a huff, closing the book on one finger. She turns to Luisa, removing her thin black-rimmed glasses, and her eyes shimmer the blue of paint drying on a _no swimming_ sign. “Emilia Antonia wouldn’t waste her time in a small town like this,” the woman says, her voice as chilled as a good vodka martini. “Besides,” and here her arms sweep Luisa as she leans back against the arm of her chair with a tilt of her head (and her hair sweeps across her shoulder the way a cat’s tail sweeps across snow, the way a bird can brush away melting snow from the first spring blades, and where a bird reveals green, the hair reveals a spattering of stars – freckles – in constellations just beneath her rosy blouse), “she’s extremely protective of her privacy. A public job like this wouldn’t entice her.”

Luisa itches to pull out a pencil and paper the same way an artist might when they want to sketch the life before them, but she forces herself to remain in the conversation. “It might,” she says. “You never know.” She flashes her award-winning (literally!) grin without a trace of bitterness. “Maybe she’s bored. Or maybe she’s ready to share her talents with the world.”

The woman taps her fingers on the back of her book, just on the petals of the bouquet etched into its front, onto the petals that have dropped and left the flowers only stems. “Better her than _you_,” she says, her voice more than a little frigid.

Well, okay. Luisa deserved that. She _did_ interrupt while the woman was reading a book. One of _her_ books, no less. They _are_ pretty engaging, if she does say so herself.

“Sorry. It’s a good book. I’m interrupting.”

Luisa continues to smile into the silence now stretching out between them, and the woman sighs before placing her glasses back on and returning to her book. Then, unable to keep her mouth shut, Luisa whispers, “Hey—take a chill pill. They’re not as bad in there as you think they are.”

The redhead just pulls tighter into herself, her whole body tenses, and she keeps her eyes focused completely on the book in her hands.

“Well,” Luisa draws out the word so long that she expects the redhead to cut her off (she doesn’t), “I’ll take that as my cue to leave.” She pats the arm of the woman’s chair as she stands. “Hopefully, I’ll see you in a few months.”

And, as she walks away, she can barely make out the voice of the woman behind her in an angry growl, “_I doubt it._”


	2. Flannel and Spilled Coffee

Three months pass, and by the end of it, Luisa Alver is officially hired on as an English professor at Sunset University. There are contracts to be signed by both parties, followed by a public reveal first by _her_ publicist and across her social media accounts, and only then does Sunset itself confirm the addition to their staff by a huge _Welcome to Sunset!_ post across _their_ social media. This is, of course, with its own note – that the university is working with Emilia Antonia to keep her identity as secret as possible – and this, too, is covered with all sorts of reactions that Luisa doesn’t care to read. She learned early on after her first publication that reading negative comments is of no use to anyone. They just make her sad.

Sunset awards Luisa a mostly nondescript office packed in the middle of a bunch of other professor’s offices, right in the corner, hidden away as if she is no one special, and it makes her excessively happy. The continued anonymity is perfect. Being able to have her office near the other English professors is perfect. Knowing that there are other liberal arts professors nearby is perfect, and she already knows that if she has time she may creep into other classes to sit and learn because she’s always been interested in learning _more_. She’s sure that won’t be a problem.

Luisa starts moving in as soon as she can, way before classes start so that she can get used to the campus and so that the office is full of her characteristic _her_ness by the time her students arrive, so that it is clear that it could belong to no one other than Professor Alver. She brings box after box into her tiny little office until she can’t see anything _but_ boxes and the little tunnel she’s built between them so that she can navigate to her bookshelves.

IQ of 152. Bring the bookshelves in first.

IQ of 152. Bring the desk in _last_.

—which means that her mug of tea is now resting precariously on top of one of the smaller stacks of boxes, which admittedly isn’t the _best_ idea in the world, but it’s working out okay for her right now. She’s got enough room to sit down cross-legged on the purple carpet covering the floor (they have _purple. carpet._ purple!), to snuggle down in front of her first bookshelf while she goes through and organizes her books before placing them perfectly arranged in their spots. In truth, she’ll probably just end up with stacks of books and another stack of broken cardboard boxes with _nothing_ in the bookshelves at the end of the day because going through books she’ll get stuck skimming the pages and revisiting favorite poems or moments. Heck, having a stack of empty boxes? _That’s_ hopeful.

But right now, Luisa isn’t going through her boxes yet. She’s still in the process of bringing them in.

Luisa struggles up the stairs – she’s on the third floor, which is nice because she has a nice view, at least – well, it’s a view of the concrete bridge connecting this building to the one next door, but that’s still nice, in her opinion, because she’s not right up against the other building _and_ she can watch students scurry about across the bridge once school starts – as she carts another huge, over-packed box of books to her office. Her arms are already sore because boxes of books are _heavy_ and after _multiple_ boxes and _three flights_ of stairs, she’s certain that she’s going to be so sore tomorrow she won’t be able to move. Then again, that’s the perfect excuse to sit on the floor in front of her bookshelf and go through the books.

—then again, if she kept this up for a few days, she could get some nice muscle mass, but she’s not really that sort of person. If only she hadn’t broken up with Juicy. Then this would be a _cinch_. (Really, Juicy broke up with _her_, but she doesn’t tell the story that way. And the story is all in who is telling it and who is hearing it and in _her_ opinion it’s a lot _nicer_ to think that _she_ broke up with Juicy using self-destructive means that she didn’t even know she was doing instead of doing her best and hardest to be a good girlfriend and still being broken up with anyway. It’s all in the way the story is told! And as long as _she_ is telling the story, she’ll tell the one that makes her feel better about herself, thank you very much.)

The additional problem with carting huge heavy boxes upstairs and through halls is that Luisa can’t really see around said huge heavy box, so it’s not really _her_ fault when she runs smack dab into…_something? someone?_ There’s a kind of exclaimed unhappy sound, so she expects it’s _someone_ and not the wall (_again_ – she’d gotten better at avoiding the walls after so many boxes and so many stairs, but as worn out as she was getting, it’s inevitable that she might run into the wall again).

“Sorry!” Luisa tries to glance around the box but, still not being able to see anything but _more_ cardboard box, she bends down and puts the box on the floor (a very unfortunate decision because picking that up from the floor is going to be _so_ much harder than taking it out of the trunk of her car). When she stands back up, brushing her hands together and then pressing them into her lower back, she sees the same redhead from before – the one who had been sitting outside after her interview – the one who’d been reading one of her books.

She suddenly feels a little _less_ sorry.

The redhead is glaring daggers at her, but the blue fire in her eyes doesn’t have the same punch when Luisa considers the huge coffee stain spreading across the cream-colored blouse she’s wearing or the way it accents her chest.

Luisa offers an awkward grin, teeth digging into her lower lip. “Sorry. It’s hard to see around, you know.” She gestures to the box and gauges the woman’s reaction. Nothing doing. Her eyes flick to the stain again. “You might want to take care of—”

“_I know_,” the woman says through gritted teeth. Her hand tightens on her now empty paper cup of coffee so tight her knuckles turn a blinding white. (Starbucks. Of course. Luisa is _not_ surprised.)

“Look,” Luisa starts, and she holds up a hand before the woman can speak, “I’ve got a box of shirts in my office.” And she can’t stop the ramble before it starts, that oversharing of unimportant information that she’s been prone to do ever since she was a kid. _Then_, it had been adorable. _Now_, it’s just…obnoxious, most of the time. She knows that. She acknowledges that other people find her annoying. But that doesn’t make it easier for her to _stop_.

“I accidentally brought it up with all of the other boxes. _Probably_ should have guessed it wasn’t books when it wasn’t super heavy but after bringing up all the others I thought maybe my arms were going numb.” Luisa grins and laughs at herself a little bit. The other woman doesn’t. So she continues, “And before you suggest that means I should’ve taken a break, I _used_ to be a medical doctor, so I know what signs to watch out for, and _trust me_, I’m fine.”

“I didn’t ask.”

It’s said with the same weight as _I don’t care_ only she didn’t care enough to say that.

Luisa sighs and rolls her lips together. “Do you want another shirt or not?”

“Fine.”

Luisa crouches down and picks up her box of books again – _lift with your knees to protect your back!_ – and then pauses. “You’ll have to follow me. I can’t see around this thing, and I don’t think you want me to run into you again.”

When the woman doesn’t say anything in reply, Luisa just sighs again and starts forward. She hopes the redhead has moved out of her way, and to no surprise, she has. Luisa continues forward and without looking finds her way back to her tiny little office. She puts the box on the chair waiting outside and gestures for the woman to follow her.

The woman looks into the tunnel of boxes and back to Luisa with one brow raised. “Not the way I would have done it.”

“Yeah?” Luisa asks, taking in deep breaths, bending forward a bit, hands on her knees. “How would _you_ have done it?”

“Empty one box before bringing another one up.” The woman scours the room for the trashcan and, on finding it next to the door, drops her paper cup in it despite the fact that there’s no plastic bag in it yet.

After another deep breath, Luisa leads her to the box of shirts, which she’d intentionally set to one side so that she didn’t start trying to unpack it when she went through the books. She opens it quickly with a grin. “Voila! Shirts.” Then she stands to one side as the woman picks through the box, pulling out one shirt after the other. “I’m Luisa, by the way,” Luisa says into the awkward emptiness. “Luisa Alver. New coworker.”

“Professor Ruvelle,” the woman says, not looking up from the box of clothes.

“You have a first name to go with your title?”

“Yes.”

But _Professor Ruvelle_ doesn’t continue. Maybe that’s expected, given the whole _spilled coffee_ scenario.

“I’m _really_ sorry about your coffee.”

Professor Ruvelle’s jaw tightens, the muscle flinching beneath her skin, all exposed, and Luisa cuts herself off before she says anything stupid. Then Ruvelle steps back with a red and black plaid flannel shirt in one hand. “This one okay?”

“Take whichever one you want. I’ve got _plenty_ of others to choose from.”

Ruvelle nodded and turned away from Luisa, facing the boxes of books that would prevent her from being seen from outside the office, before pulling her now stained blouse up over her head. Luisa can’t help but gasp at the sudden action, and although she _knows_ it would be much more professional to look down or away or anywhere else, she can’t help but be drawn to the woman’s back. The constellations of freckles she’d seen briefly exposed on the woman’s shoulder just after her interview continue in clusters across her spine. Already, she can pull designs out of them – a face here and there, the outline of a bear, then _two_ bears – ursa major and ursa minor – and there, off to one side, is the little dipper half full of coffee that it pours into the rose-studded platter beneath it, so much that it overflows.

Then all of this is covered with her own flannel shirt, the redhead’s fingers fiddling with the collar before moving to the front where Luisa assumes they are nimbly buttoning it, and she can finally turn away, swallowing once.

Good job, Luisa. Ogle the cute coworker who _does not like you_. She’s not even your type.

_All women are my type._

(This is a lie. This is a blatant lie. But Luisa thinks it to make herself feel better.)

“I can bring this back tomorrow,” Ruvelle says in that voice that Luisa is now noticing is honey smooth, and she looks back to see that the taller professor has left a few of the top buttons unbuttoned, that her shirt is a combination of too big and too small, and that to combat this the other woman has tied the ends just under her chest, leaving her stomach exposed (and her lower back, if Luisa hadn’t turned away when everything was covered).

“Yeah, just…drop it in my mailbox.” Luisa swallows and waves one hand dismissively, trying to look away or to keep her eyes _up_. Away is easier. She turns to the box of books next to the other woman and starts to open it. “I’ll find it.”

Ruvelle starts back through the tunnel of cardboard boxes before saying, without turning back, “You’re not going to ask me out to lunch? Or for another cup of coffee? For all of the trouble you’ve caused me?”

Luisa laughs and refuses to look up again, instead focusing where her fingers fiddle with the tape barely holding her box together. “No,” she says, finally, when she catches her breath. “Seems like a line you’ve heard before. Don’t want to overstep your kindness. Figured that would be _pushing it_ a little too much, don’t you think?”

There’s a pause before Ruvelle says, “Thank you,” and Luisa can’t see if she smiled as she exited or if the comment meant something because as soon as she looks up, the other woman is already gone. In the future, then, _maybe_, she can ask about lunch, if she could even find a way to get the woman to give her a _first name_ – although a quick google search of the professors or even just finding the other woman’s office and reading the title would tell her that much – but that feels almost like _cheating_, in a way. Besides, if Ruvelle doesn’t want her to know her name, then she doesn’t want her to know. Luisa gets that.

Mostly.

So – other than losing what may be one of her favorite flannel shirts (and if it wasn’t before, it _certainly_ is now) – Luisa mostly tries to file the event in the back of her mind instead of ruminating on it. This is easy enough to do when she’s moving heavy boxes and unpacking and organizing books for _hours_, but it’s far harder to do when she’s exhausted and laying back on her bed in her brand new house, staring out the window at the stars she can see just outside, and instead of the lights perfectly placed in the dark sky she sees darker freckles against skin so pale that it makes her heart ache.

Which is _really_ not fair because Ruvelle _does not like her_ and here she is, unable to get the other professor out of her head.


	3. Luisa and the Missing Flannel

__<strike>spots that mar animals</strike>  
on you mark souls devoured  
the same as constellations thrown  
by gods who wanted deeds  
and people remembered

….

_this is trash_

* * *

Weeks pass, and Luisa does not see her red-and-black plaid flannel shirt return in her mailbox, despite checking it every day. In fact, the only thing she sees in her work mailbox is what feels like an endless stream of welcome pages from various departments followed by another seemingly endless stream of papers on meetings she should go to or student meetings she could _maybe_ go to or help sponsor if they thought they were important or worth her time (and there were a few she debated – and then there was that awkward moment of wondering if she could pass _for_ a student before talking herself out of it because she didn’t want to be _that_ professor). At some point, she started visiting her mailbox just to clear out the papers without even acknowledging that there wasn’t a shirt waiting for her, accepting that she wasn’t going to get it back.

Because, even though she doesn’t see it there, Luisa _does_ see her red-and-black plaid flannel shirt _elsewhere_.

Luisa’s office is on an opposite corner from the staff room where her mailbox waits, and although she _could_ go in the other direction, more often than not Luisa takes the hallway that allows her to pass Professor Ruvelle’s office. She hasn’t knocked on her door yet, partly because every time she passes her, the redhead seems to be caught up in something important (even if it’s just reading another book), and partly because Luisa doesn’t want to be the nosy other professor who looks in every now and again and is creepily watch and trying to get her attention—

She’s actually actively _avoiding_ being that person because she knows that her overly friendly demeanor can be overwhelming and a turn-off. Not that this ever really stopped her before – and she’s _sure_ she’ll still end up being that person to _someone else_ – but at least she’s trying _not_ to be that person to the woman who she already interrupted while reading her brook and who she’s already caused to spill coffee all over her cream shirt—

Ok, so she is already dangerously on the line of being _that other professor_, so she’s trying not to take that extra step in the wrong direction.

But when she passes Professor Ruvelle’s office, Luisa can’t help but look in, just in case, to see if, maybe, she’s _not_ busy, and on more days and evenings than she would like to admit (still going on that _trying not to be creepy_ thing), Luisa has seen Professor Ruvelle still wearing her flannel shirt. Sometimes the other professor has it draped over her shoulders, sometimes she’s wearing it as a jacket over a tank-top (normally cream-colored, which, along with the flannel, brings out the sharp sprinkling of freckles across her skin, _not that Luisa has been looking_ (she has)), sometimes she has the sleeves rolled up, and sometimes, perhaps most frequently of all, she’s had it tied around her waist while arranging books or shelves or doing other organizational work around her office.

And on the one hand, Luisa has to admit that seeing Ruvelle semi-constantly wearing her flannel shirt is both adorable and _insanely attractive_, and that the more she sees it, the more this little warm spot in the middle of her chest begins glowing a bright gold – if it could be seen, which it couldn’t, because _that doesn’t happen in real life_ – and certainly the first time she noticed it, she was shocked! But on the other hand, part of Luisa really just wants her shirt back. If she and Ruvelle were dating or friends or _anything other than acquaintances_, one of whom clearly doesn’t really like the other, she would mind a little less, but there’s something discomforting about the appropriation of her clothes by a woman who won’t even tell her what her first name is.

Luisa still hasn’t looked it up.

She still _can_. It would be really easy, at this point, to find out what it is because it’s on the name plaque on her door, and Luisa’s seen it just barely and tried to ignore it and scrub it from her mind (and she’s been really good about that, although her mind keeps trying to bring it back up and run it through her mind or play with the idea of it in different poems – _not all of them nice because she _does_ want her flannel shirt back_)—

The point is that she has tried _really, really hard_ **not** to find out what it is. If Professor Ruvelle doesn’t want her to know what her first name is yet then, well, she’ll still act like she doesn’t know it.

(**<strike>Rose. Her name is Rose.</strike>**)

Then, one day, as Luisa passes Professor’s Ruvelle’s office and glances in – as she always does – she catches the professor looking up. Ruvelle sits in her chair, glasses perched on the edge of her nose, reading _something_ on her computer, and in a brief, uncalculated moment, she shifts in her seat, pulls Luisa’s flannel shirt closer about her with a shiver, and glances up. Their eyes meet. Luisa smiles and waves once before looking away and continuing down the hall.

It’s not like she’d _stopped_ and _watched_ Professor Ruvelle. She’d just been passing by. Walking. And looked! Like you do! When you pass someone’s office and you’re curious!

Not! That she does that with _any other_ professor’s office, but Ruvelle can’t really make that call. She doesn’t know. She’s not following her everywhere! She’s not!

Still.

Being caught looking, even just in passing, makes Luisa feel worried. Wary. Uncomfortable. Like all of her efforts to _not_ be the creepy other professor are suddenly in vain just by being caught glancing in her direction once one day while she walked by.

_ <strike>Also it was entirely unfair for Ruvelle to have her hair tied into braided pigtails. Really, </strike> _ <strike>really_ unfair._</strike>

Luisa goes out of her way to not pass by the redhead’s office again the rest of the day. She holes herself up in her office and shuts her door and pretends that she’s not as foolish as she knows that she really is. Look! She can exercise self-control! That should count for something!

The very next morning, Luisa finds her flannel shirt carefully folded and tucked into her mailbox. Her heart sinks because this means she won’t get to see Professor Ruvelle wearing it anymore, but as she pulls the shirt out, she finds a note pinned just over the breast pocket, folded in half with her name written on it in a beautiful, albeit probably _hasty_, cursive script.

Luisa’s breath catches in her throat, and she holds the shirt close to her chest as she goes back to her office, head down, ignoring the new pages left in her mailbox beneath the shirt. She sits down in her leather chair (she’d sprung for a nice chair because if she was going to be sitting in it frequently, then she wanted a nice chair) at the desk she has finally unpacked and put together (and, _for now_, it’s still _clean_, although she suspects that when classes finally start, it’ll be _covered_ with papers – and **clean** is really a questionable word anyway because there are already tea and coffee rings staining the top from however many different mugs and cups she’s had in her office) and places the shirt in her lap. Her fingers run along the smooth paper that’s still pinned to the breast pocket before carefully unpinning it, dropping the pin into her pencil cup, and folding it open.

_Luisa_, it read, _we should do lunch. If you’re free, I’ll be at Miyo 34 at noon. Come find me._

And then Ruvelle’s signature.

Still without her first name.

Which makes Luisa’s eyes squint a little bit before flicking quickly to her clock. _Shit, shit, shit._

Luisa starts to shove the flannel onto her desk, but then she thinks better of it and pulls it on. Not her _best_ decision because now she can smell a sharp, strong scent of strawberries and lavender, and it’s more than a little bit distracting. But as she rushes out of her office, locking the door behind her, and out of the building, she can’t help but find herself _liking_ it.

It’s _nice_.

* * *

Miyo 34 is a bar.

Luisa’s been there once or twice, just to sit and watch people, size them up. The first time, she’d been hit on by a couple of guys, which was amusing, especially when she asked the bartender for her number before leaving. (She’d _gotten_ it, too, although she’d found out when she called that the other woman wasn’t interested in anything long term, just the occasional booty call every now and again – which Luisa, at one point, would have been fine with…to an extent. But now she wants something a little more concrete than she did when she was in college or when she was just a student (or even last year, when her lawyer had hit her up every now and again). Maybe that’s why she hasn’t always answered when the dark-haired bartender calls; maybe that’s why she hasn’t really called her back since that first time.)

Now, despite being a _bar_, Miyo 34 is _classy_. It’s maybe more of a _pub_ than a _bar_, offering food of actual restaurant level (at least, it’s better than a lot of the other bars Luisa’s been to – in college or otherwise), and it’s a little past noon when Luisa gets there, stopping just in front of the glass doors, brushing her hands along the thighs of her shorts (and, yes, her legs look very nice because it’s _hot_ and she’d worn some very short shorts for a college professor, but it’s not like she was _teaching_ anyone yet – she’s planning to look a lot more professional when she actually teaches, she just _hasn’t started teaching yet_). She looks at the reflection of herself in the glass as she stops to take a steadying breath and brushes her hair with her fingers – there’s a lot of fly-aways from the run here – then pulls the flannel, newly returned, a little tighter around her and enters the bar.

Pub.

_Place where Professor Ruvelle asked her to meet her._

It takes a few seconds of deep hazel eyes sweeping the bar before she catches sight of the redhead sitting in one of the booths with her back to the door, head turned so that her eyes seem focused on the world outside the window. Luisa takes another deep breath and walks to the leather booth, sliding into the other side. Her eyes take in the other woman’s appearance – another cream tank-top, her exposed skin covered with smatterings of freckles, shoulders a darker sheen of red than the rest of her arms, that same sun-kissed burn brushing her cheekbones and the very tip of her nose.

Luisa tugs on her bottom lip, tongue brushing where it hides behind her teeth.

“You wanted to see me?”

Professor Ruvelle turns her head from where it’s perched on her fingers, glasses resting on the edge of her nose, just behind the spot of burn. “You’re late.”

“I don’t check my mailbox first thing every day,” Luisa says, crossing her arms and leaning back against the booth’s back cushion. “You’re lucky I had enough time to make it here.”

“I was prepared to wait.”

Luisa blushes and glances up, smile resting smug on her face as she meets the other woman’s bright blue eyes. “How long?”

Ruvelle looks down and turns the straw in her glass with one finger. “A while.” Her eyes flick to the waitress as she arrives, and the young woman smiles comfortably before placing the menus in front of both of them. As she leaves, Ruvelle taps a finger on Luisa’s menu. “Do you want a drink?”

Luisa lets out a little laugh. “It’s a little early for that, don’t you think?” Not that she’d ever thought that way when she was younger. She shakes her head, then, before saying, “I’m a recovering alcoholic. I haven’t had a drink in…in _years_.” Admitting that sounds odd – not the _recovering alcoholic_ part, but the _years since I’ve had a drink_ part. In college, she’d have never imagined herself not drinking. Now, she has a hard time trying to think of herself drinking at all without a mind full of regrets.

“No, I meant—water. Soda. Maybe a coke? Hold the rum.” Ruvelle smiles, still twirling the straw in her glass. “Mine’s water, although I _could_ be persuaded to drink something a little harder. Root beer, maybe, or a diet coke.” Her eyes meet Luisa’s, and her expression softens. “Although not drinking in years is a really, _really_ great achievement.”

“Please don’t patronize me,” Luisa says, her voice soft, and she brushes fingers through her hair, looking away.

“I’m not.” The redheaded professor’s eyes widen the slightest bit, and she sits up a little straighter. “I’m proud of you.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

There’s silence for a bit as the two of them peruse their menus. Luisa’s had some of the food here – and everything she’s had so far has been good, other than the clams, which are out of season so there’s little wonder they didn’t taste so good (also they _are_ clams and have to be done a very particular way for her to enjoy them at all anyway, but she wanted to be adventurous). There are still a few dishes she’d like to try, but she doesn’t say that out loud.

While she’s still in the process of deciding, Professor Ruvelle breaks the silence.

“I’m Rose, by the way.”

“Oh, gosh, _thank you_,” Luisa says immediately with a sigh of relief as her eyes lift from the menu. “I’ve been going out of my way to try and not learn your name and it is the _hardest_ thing to do when I kept passing your office and trying to see if you’d returned my shirt—”

“Which you seem to have noticed I finally _did_.” Rose chuckles. “I put it off for as long as I could, and you never said a thing.”

“I didn’t want to _push_ you. Especially since you seemed to be enjoying it more than I would have.”

“I _did_ enjoy it,” Rose says with a smile. “Why haven’t you asked me to lunch?”

Luisa shrugs nonchalantly. Or as nonchalantly as she can while wearing her flannel shirt covered with the other woman’s scent. “Trying to play it cool,” she says, her voice soft, and she glances up, meeting the redhead’s eyes again. “Did it work?”

“Oh, it _definitely_ worked.”

The waitress returns then, and they both order. It’s only when the waitress leaves with their menus that Luisa shakes her head once with a disappointed sigh, resting it on one hand.

“What’s wrong?” Rose asks.

“Your order,” Luisa says with a frown and another shake of her head. “It could have been _so_ much better.”

“Oh, really?” Rose’s eyebrows lift. “Do tell.” She leans forward on her elbows and props her chin in her hands.

“Well, first of all—”

All of a sudden, Luisa stops. She’s already started to lean forward, one elbow on the table, hand out with one finger in the air, but now her eyes shift from the woman across from her to the table itself. This is easier. It’s covered with postcards and pictures, all beneath a glass veneer to protect everything that’s there. “First of all, you don’t like me,” she says, brow furrowing, “and you’ve been wearing my shirt for weeks almost constantly _and_ you invited me to dinner, and that’s _really weird behavior_ for someone to have if they don’t like the other person.”

Luisa looks up to see that Rose has leaned back against the black leather cushion behind her, arms crossed. “I never said I didn’t like you.”

“You acted like you did.”

Rose nods once. Her fingers begin to tap along the exposed skin of her arm, and there’s a few moments silence before she speaks. When she finally does, her words are careful, exact, and the same tone from their previous discussions is back – something distant, almost refined. “At your interview, you mentioned a rumor that the board of governors was trying to hire Emilia Antonia.”

“Yeah?” Luisa asks. “What of it?”

“There’d been no rumors before that. Nothing.” Rose tilts her head to one side. “How did you know?”

Luisa sighs. Of course. _Of course_, it had to be related to that and not to _her_. “You think I’m her.” She leans back against the booth and pushes a hand over her hair, fingers pressing down gently. When Rose doesn’t say anything, Luisa continues, “I overheard them discussing it before my interview. I was right after their lunch hour. She must have been their interviewee before that. When they saw me, they stopped entirely.” She looks up. “Sorry that I couldn’t be any more help.”

Rose watches her curiously but still doesn’t say anything, as though she is considering whether to accept Luisa’s answer or not, but by then, it doesn’t matter. Whatever warm bubbly feeling Luisa had been entertaining has disappeared entirely, leaving only molten lead in its place. This…isn’t how this is supposed to go.

Luisa scoots out of the booth. “Thanks for inviting me out here and all, but I think it’d be better if I don’t stay.” She shifts out of the flannel shirt and ties it haphazardly around her waist because she suddenly feels far, far too hot.

“Luisa—”

“No, don’t.” Luisa holds up a hand. “This is, uh,” she struggles to find the right word, and maybe that, at least, will convince Ruvelle of how _wrong_ she is (even if she isn’t wrong at all).

“—uncomfortable?” the redhead asks, substituting in a word that might work.

Luisa shakes her head. That isn’t the right word either. It works, but it’s not _right_. Lightning bug, not lightning. “I’ll go ask them to wrap up my food to go. I wasn’t really all that hungry anyway. You stay. It’s nice out.”

“But you won’t be here to tell me what’s wrong with my order.”

“You’ll figure it out.” Luisa meets the other professor’s eyes and offers her a weak smile before backing up again. “Next time you want to ask me out, maybe, um.” She hesitates, swallows. “Maybe _don’t_.” The smile turns into something more akin to a wince as she walks away.

A part of her hopes that Professor Ruvelle will call her back or ask her to stop or even so much as apologize, but there’s nothing at all. Maybe that was a little too much to want. Someone so desperate to punch holes into someone else’s privacy that they fake an outing with a colleague with the intention of squirreling the truth out – regardless of whether it was the truth or not – likely wasn’t going to apologize for it.

Luisa stops at the bar, and her eyes run along the different drinks offered behind it. Her gaze only moves when their waitress finds her. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no,” Luisa says, and when she grins, it’s much more relaxed, much more open. “I just realized I had another meeting to get to that I forgot _all_ about. Can you maybe wrap my food up? I can just take it with me and eat on the way.”

“Oh, sure, of course!” The waitress smiles as she returns to the kitchen.

It’s all Luisa can do to not order a drink to go as well. Truth be told, she wants an entire bottle. But she knows better than to go for anything like that. Not because it looks bad for a professor to drink or get drunk – she remembers far too many of her own who did – but because she knows better than to even tangle with it.

Not again. Not now.

Besides, that would be a quick way to letting out the secret that’s already getting her into trouble. (Why did she think this was a good idea?)

On her way back to campus, Luisa pulls her phone out of her pocket and dials the bartender’s number. No one answers, but she leaves a message. “Hey, if you’re free, do you want to meet up later? I’d like to see you.”

Within moments, the bartender calls her back.

* * *

She isn’t sated, after.

It’s probably because she is left alone. The brunette isn’t much on staying after, seems to abhor cuddling, and has changed back into her clothes and left Luisa’s new house almost as soon as they’re done. It’s the same as the first time. Maybe a little better, because they knew a little more about each other’s likes and dislikes, but not enough for it to be _good_.

Luisa sighs and lays back against her mattress, and instead of staring outside her window at the stars like she does most of the time before she falls asleep, she glances up at the ceiling, eyes tracing the outline of the single glow-in-the-dark star that someone else left behind. She can’t really make a constellation from one single star. If there were cracks in the ceiling, she could make designs from that and content herself, but there aren’t any. She doesn’t even have wallpaper.

Her eyes close, and she thinks about Professor Ruvelle, and, bare beneath her sheets, she shivers.

Then she pushes herself out of the bed and hides beneath the cold embrace of a heatless shower.


	4. Laundry Day; See You There; Underthings Tumbling

The next day, Luisa decides it’s in her best interest to stay away from her office. It’s not as though she really needs to go in anyway, since her job doesn’t officially start until shortly before the fall semester does. The only reason she’s been in so often the past few weeks was to get her office set up and to possibly run into Professor Ruvelle. But it’s been days since she’s spent any time setting up her office, so there’s no reason to waste time pretending that she’s doing that, and right now….

To be honest, Luisa doesn’t want to run into Professor Ruvelle right now. More to the point, she’s afraid that the redheaded professor will act as if nothing that happened the previous day meant anything at all. That would feel even worse.

So – since she isn’t being paid to go to campus anyway – Luisa chooses to take the day off and _maybe_ stay at her new house. She’s been living here for almost a month now, and almost all of that time has been spent on campus. Her office might be set up, but she’s barely made a dent unpacking here. In fact, she hasn’t unpacked the slightest bit beyond what she’s needed from day to day – coffee maker, teapot, a few scattered dishes that usually end up sitting in her sink until she’s decided she has enough free time to wash them. Other than Miyo 34, she’s actually been eating out a lot more than eating in, and when she _has_ eaten at her house, it’s been mainly take out or pizza, which admittedly _isn’t very healthy_, but it’s food, and that’s the really important thing.

When she wakes up that morning, Luisa shivers again. She’d turned the air conditioner up while the brunette bartender was over and forgotten to turn it back down again after. Now she’s _freezing_ – the cool air had felt good after her shower, but now it certainly did not – and she’s not wearing warm enough clothes to want to push herself out from beneath her blankets to turn the air down. She pulls her blankets closer around her, and her eyes move over the box that has been slowly running out of clothes for her to wear (the one Ruvelle had gone through was empty within a week). The box is too far away for her to take the blankets with her, unless she completely unmakes the bed, and as nice as that thought would be, it’d be more work than it’s worth.

…maybe it would be better to spend the day doing laundry than it would to stay around the house and unpack.

Luisa forces herself out of bed and runs over to the box, picks the shirt and shorts at the very top, and then runs back to the bed so that she can change under the covers where there’s still a little bit of warmth left. Once she’s done, she races back over the air conditioner and turns it off before jumping back in bed, shivering until the body heat she’d left behind warms her back up.

There’s a pile of unclean clothes in one corner of the room, hidden behind unpacked boxes because she’d thought it was a good idea to clean up the faintest bit before the bartender had arrived the evening before. Now, though, she’s beginning to regret that she hadn’t thought ahead enough to buy a washer and dryer.

…or _had_ she bought them? It’s possible that it’s on that list of things she’s been planning to do around the house and just _hasn’t done_ because she hasn’t unpacked everything else enough to actually get a washer and dryer into the house.

Like buying the birds.

She’s always wanted pet birds. They seem like they’d be easier than dogs, which need to be walked, or cats, which sometimes need a lot of attention (although she likes giving attention), or fish, which need their tanks cleaned. Which isn’t to say that birds don’t need their cages cleaned – _they do_ – but…. There’s just something nice about birds. Something peaceful. It would be nice, she thinks, to have birds.

Once she bought a washer and dryer.

_Once she unpacked._

So maybe it’s more than a really good idea to take some time off from setting up her office which doesn’t need more setting up and get her real life in order.

* * *

A couple of hours later – _she was hungry and breakfast sounded really good and she had to find her pan before using it and then realized she didn’t have that kind of food in the house yet so she had to order something in_ – and Luisa can be found dragging a huge knit bag almost too big for her full of the clothes she’s been wearing for the past few weeks (so she has a lot of clothes; it’s the price of having a wealthy family) from her car into the laundromat. It’s fortunate for her that she already has some cash on her so that she can exchange it for the change needed to start the washers (she takes up too many of them – whites, darks, jeans, towels, sheets, _lingerie_ – you know, all the really important stuff), but once everything’s started, she sits down on one of the rickety old white chairs with a sigh. She leans back, pulls out her tan leather notebook, and begins to write.

Her eyes roam over the lines and stanzas she’s been working on for the past few days, and then she hastily crosses all of them out. No point lingering over a woman who not only _does not like her_ but also thought it would be a good idea to _ask her out on a date under false pretenses_. Of course, thinking over the lingering physical attraction she still holds for the redhead combined with her frustration with her and the hurt said redhead’s actions has caused _could_ make for an interesting poem in and of itself, but…does she really want to go there?

Before Luisa has the time to decide one way or the other, the bell inside the front door dings, and she quickly closes her notebook, sticking her mechanical pencil behind one ear. She turns to face the other occupant and sees that it is none other than the very woman she’s been trying to avoid: Professor Ruvelle. Instead of saying anything, Luisa scoots down in her seat, hoping that the other woman doesn’t see her, but at the same time, she keeps her eyes on her so that she can try and keep track of where she is and what she’s doing.

Which is definitely _not_ creepy at all. It’s not _her_ fault that Ruvelle happened to come to the same laundromat on the same day she did at roughly the same time she did. _In fact,_ **she** was here first, not Ruvelle, so that’s in her favor. Hah!

It’s this thought that has Luisa sit up a little straighter in her seat, both hands clasped over her notebook so that it’s almost covered (it _is_ a small thing, after all, and put on what is _not_ her brightest grin but is really more of a smug expression before saying, her voice very calm, “Fancy seeing _you_ here.” She makes sure to keep the smug smile on her face as Ruvelle turns around, and she crosses one leg over the other in the same manner she had during her job interview – with the intent of making the other woman look. Her shorts are much shorter than the skirt she’d been wearing then, so her legs are significantly more exposed. In fact, the other woman might think she’s not wearing anything at all, even if she knows better. “You’re not following me, are you?”

Luisa is rewarded for her actions when the other professor’s eyes are drawn to her legs, when they linger on them ever so slightly before slowly drawing back up to her face. But Ruvelle doesn’t blush the way Luisa hoped she would, she doesn’t pull her lower lip between her teeth the way _Luisa_ would, and her gaze still seems like blue steel behind her glasses. “Why would I be following you?” Ruvelle asks, holding Luisa’s gaze.

But, for once, Luisa doesn’t break under its pressure. “Oh, you know, the whole _Emilia Antonia_ thing. Maybe you’re trying to cover your tracks.”

Ruvelle’s brows raise briefly, and she turns away as she begins searching for an unused washer amid the far too many that Luisa has paid to run. “I don’t think I’d want to air my dirty laundry around an international best-selling poet. I think you’re safe.” She finally finds one unused washer in the back of the building, and she dumps her first load in it, starts it, and turns back to Luisa. “Do you know who else is running these? It’s normally empty here.”

“Me.”

Luisa’s smug expression only deepens. It’s petty, maybe, and completely unplanned, but she’s happy to have thrown the redhead’s schedule off. It’s like reclaiming the point she had stolen from her at lunch yesterday. Not that this is a _game_ or there’s an actual _score_ or anything.

When Ruvelle’s brows raise again, Luisa leans back in her _extremely uncomfortable_ white plastic chair. These things weren’t made for comfort, and she’s starting to realize that. But despite all of this, she can’t help but wish she was wearing a shirt that was a little more low-cut, just to torment the other professor. “You come here often?”

“I don’t have to tell you that.” The redhead hops atop her washer and sits there instead, crossing her legs underneath her. She lowers another bag next to her and pulls out a book of her own. Even from this far away, Luisa can tell exactly which book it is – the same one the professor had with her before her interview – _Florettes_ by Emilia Antonia. It’s a little more weather-beaten and dog-eared than it had been all those months ago, and as she opens it, Rose seems to go directly to a favorite spot – the book is bent such that it opens there almost immediately without its owner having to turn a page.

“I take it that’s a good book?” Luisa asks. She can’t see Professor Ruvelle’s face behind the cover, but as the other woman lays the book down in her lap, she glares in her direction, jaw clenched just enough that her muscle stands out against her cheek. “I’ve heard it’s good.”

“You haven’t read it?” Ruvelle replies, a veneer of contempt in her voice.

Luisa just shrugs. “I tried once or twice, but I’m not huge on poetry. It seems a little overdone to me.” By this point, she’s moved the notebook just enough to hide it beneath her legs, which, admittedly, makes the uncomfortable white plastic chair even more uncomfortable to sit in, but she’ll make do.

“_A little overdone?_” Ruvelle doesn’t say it, but Luisa can read it etched across her shocked expression, in the way her jaw tightens even more, the way she takes a deep breath through her nose, the way she turns away just enough to give herself the slightest bit of composure. “I wrote my thesis on Emilia Antonia and how her use of floral imagery turns readers’ expectations on their heads when compared with other poets – Dickinson, Whitman, Eliot.”

“So is it good?”

“_Of course, it’s—_” Ruvelle stops herself and takes another deep, steadying breath, rubbing her temples with one hand. “By all discernable avenues of critique, _yes_, it’s good.”

“Huh.” Luisa schools her face into an appropriate response. It’s not _hard_; as horrible as she can be about keeping secrets when she’s feeling guilty, right now she doesn’t feel like that at all. Also, she’d maybe trained herself to have conversations about this sort of thing. She’d _had_ to, especially with her _also international best-selling_ sister-in-law eating up every word. (That may have been part of why she’d decided to teach at a university so far away. There’s only so many times she could straight up lie in front of her brother and his ex-wife before one of them catches on. It’s to their disservice that they haven’t yet.) “So you’re saying I should try it again?”

“They’re not for everybody,” Ruvelle says, and she shuts the book and leans forward, her hands gripping the edges of the washer. “Maybe they’re just not for you.”

Something in Luisa bristles at her statement. Her poetry hadn’t originally been intended for the whole world to read it. Most of it, for most of her life, had been very private. But after everything else, it’d been the only way left for her to process the events. Sure, maybe they weren’t _meant for everybody_, but so many people had found something that resonated with them—

“Maybe they’re not.” Luisa taps her fingers along her knee, intentionally drawing Ruvelle’s attention back to her leg as she shifts in her chair and tilts her head to one side. “Or maybe I just don’t have the right teacher.”

Whatever it was she expected that line to do, it doesn’t do it. Ruvelle remains as she was before, unchanged. She doesn’t even grit her teeth in annoyance of frustration. If anything, it’s like she’s waiting for Luisa to explain herself. If Luisa were to guess at what she’s doing, that is. But she’s been wrong before.

Instead of explaining herself, though, Luisa asks, “Which one is your favorite?”

“I don’t have a favorite. I have many.”

Luisa sighs and rolls her eyes. “Show me one of your favorites. Explain it to me. Maybe I’ll get why they’re so great if you do.”

Ruvelle seems to consider this for a moment. Her eyes flick to her worn-out book, and she lets out a deep breath. “Fine,” she says, “but if you mock this, understand that you are doing irreparable damage to any sort of good work relationship between us.”

“You mean like you did yesterday?” Luisa asks. But she stands anyway, wipes her hands along her short shorts, and takes her notebook with her as she walks over to Ruvelle. For her part, the other woman has scooted over to the side so that there’s just enough room next to her on the washer for both of them. Luisa hops up and sits next to her, crossing her legs beneath her.

So maybe there’s _not_ really enough room for both of them on top of the washer. Cross-legged as she is, Luisa has to sit just behind Rose, and even then, her right leg rests against the other professor’s back. She tries to scoot back, but the redhead places a hand on her knee. The touch causes Luisa to freeze, and even though she’s still not happy with her, that doesn’t stop her heart from jumping once.

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you yesterday,” the redhead says, and she turns just enough to look up and meet Luisa’s eyes. “I only thought—”

“Well, you were wrong.” The lie slips through Luisa’s lips with ease. “But I’m sure Emilia Antonia, whoever she ends up being, would love all the time you’ve spent on her poetry.” Her lips curve at the edges. “Besides, how do I know she’s not _you_?”

“You don’t.” Rose offers her a close-lipped grin then taps her worn-out book on Luisa’s knee. “Turn.”

Luisa does as Rose asks and notices that Rose does the same, turning to rest her back against the opposite side of the washer as Luisa and stretching her long legs out so that they curve, her knees near to her. Luisa does the same, her own knees close to Rose, and Rose places the book, open, between them. “This is the one I was reading,” she says, her fingers running along the page. There are watermarks that Luisa thinks must be dried tears, although she doesn’t mention it.

And she remembers writing this poem, remembers how it was torn from her with the same pain as tearing off fingernails, and she knows that it is impossible for her to pick favorites or to speak her mind truly on such matters, but it says something, to her, that _this_ is the poem Rose has chosen to speak to her.

As Rose reads the poem aloud, her soft voice falls and rises with her breath, and her fingers begin to trace up and down Luisa’s leg. The first time it happens, Luisa’s breath catches. She tries to meet the other woman’s eyes, but Rose appears to be completely focused on the book and the lines she is reading. Luisa is certain Rose doesn’t even realize what she’s doing.

When Rose finishes, she looks up, and Luisa offers her a smile. “It sounds better when you read it.”

“Of course it does.”

Rose’s expression then is so smug, and Luisa’s heart is so warm, that she can feel herself leaning forward without thinking—

_And then there’s no reason to wonder if she would be assaulting her coworker because the first of her washers goes off with a loud ringing sound._

Luisa jumps back – she hasn’t used the washers here before to know just how _loud_ they would be – but Rose doesn’t move. Instead, she takes Luisa in with a curious expression, one that Luisa barely notices as she jumps off to find the right washer. Her eyes meet Rose’s as she begins to move her clean towels to one of the many dryers. “What?” she asks.

“What were you about to do?”

Luisa’s eyes widen, and she offers an awkward grin. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you—”

Then the next washer goes off, and this time, Rose winces. “You put all of them in at the same time, didn’t you?”

Luisa’s grin freezes. “Ye-es?”

Rose lets out a groan. She hops from her place sitting atop her washer. “I’ll be outside. Come get me when you’re all done.” Another washer goes off while she makes her way out of the laundromat, and it’s so loud that it covers the sound of the bell dinging overhead.

Luisa watches her go, and even though she _should_ be preoccupied with moving her clothes from the different washers to their own dryers (except for the lingerie, which absolutely should _not_ go in a dryer), she keeps glancing to the woman standing outside. She can’t stop the grin that keeps trying to spread across her face. When she’s almost done, her eyes finally catch Rose’s as the woman turns back to check on her, and although Rose looks up and gives her head a little shake first, a smile manages to find its way onto her face as well.

Luisa gestures for her to come back inside. It’s not long before Rose has taken her spot back atop her washer, and it’s then that she realizes what Luisa has left behind.

“What’s this?”

Luisa looks up from her last load of laundry and sees Rose holding her little tan notebook. Her eyes widen. “Nothing,” she says, but she knows that there’s no way Rose will believe that.

Rose taps one finger on the notebook. “If it’s nothing, then you won’t mind if I open it.”

‘No-o,” Luisa says. “I won’t mind at all.” She swallows once, hard, but tries to keep herself focused on the laundry instead of on the notebook that Rose still holds in her hand. It’s the same as when she was younger and Rafael used to ferret out one of her journals. If she pretends that it’s not worth anything, then hopefully Rose will believe that.

Her eyes flick from her laundry as she shuts the dryer door just in time to see Rose open the first page—

Then _Rose’s_ washer goes off. The redhead jumps just enough for her to drop the notebook on top of the washer next to her, and while she moves to take care of her own clothes, Luisa swoops in and takes the notebook back. “See?” she says, her voice soft. “I _told_ you it wasn’t important.

“Right.”

Luisa gives Rose a little wink. “I’ve just been using it to try and get my semester schedule set. I haven’t really taught a class before, but,” and here her smile softens, and she nods toward Rose’s copy of her book, “I think _you_ are going to do a great job.” She pauses for a moment, eyes wandering over to the timers on her dryers, and then says, her voice still soft, “I think I’m going to go get a drink or something to eat while those are going. Do you want me to get you anything?”

“I thought you didn’t drink,” Rose says, brows furrowing.

Luisa pauses for a moment, but when Rose’s expression moves into a smile, she sticks out her tongue at the other woman. “Do you want something or not?”

“Why don’t I come with you?”

There’s no hesitation as Luisa’s eyes wander over to their laundry, the words springing to her lips immediately: “You’re paying to make up for yesterday.”

Rose just grins. “I can do that.”


	5. Discussions of Eliot and Florence

“What do you _mean_ Eliot’s best work is _Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats_?” Rose holds out a fry accusingly in Luisa’s directions. “Out of all his other better known poems—”

“_None_ of his poetry’s as well-known as _Cats_ is, and you _know_ it!”

“But most people don’t know _Cats_ is _Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats_, which defeats the purpose.” Rose crosses her arms, quietly munching on the fry she’s finally stopped pointing at Luisa and instead popped into her mouth. “_Prufrock_ is probably better known as _his_ with how often high school teachers bring it up and have their students analyze it over and over and over.”

“Not to mention those _rascally_ college professors,” Luisa says, her lips curving into an easy smile.

Rose’s brows lift and then furrow. “You’re not seriously planning on looking at _Prufrock_ in one of your classes.”

“Do I dare disturb the universe?” Luisa asks, only for Rose to respond by throwing a handful of fries at her. She tries to bat them away but doesn’t succeed.

It’s been two weeks since Luisa ran into Rose at the laundromat, and their conversations have been easier since those proceedings, although there has been no continuation of Rose reading her Emilia Antonia’s poetry. (Also, there is _no way_ for Rose to have seen her lingerie and not tried to make nice – or maybe there _is_, but Luisa likes to think that her good taste won over the professor who wanted nothing to do with her for so long more than her own clumsy attempts to make peace.) In those two weeks, Luisa hasn’t spent much time at the office, instead taking the time to make her house into more of a home, but whenever she’s been on campus, she and Rose have afforded each other friendly waves and smiles. The laundry meeting itself has become a weekly event, and lunch while waiting for their clothes to finish their spin cycles with it, and while Luisa had originally intended on buying her own washer and dryer, she thought this worked more in her favor.

It’s certainly helped keep things nice with Rose, anyway.

The booth they now sit in at Miyo 34 has already become _their_ booth, not just on their weekly laundry lunches but also when they eat together outside of that – Rose always sits facing away from the door, and Luisa always sits facing towards it – and it’s situated far enough from the bar for Rose to believe she is helping Luisa feel more comfortable, even though she’s often been told that Luisa doesn’t mind the proximity at all. While they’re there together, Rose doesn’t drink, and all of this makes Luisa ridiculously happy – not just that she has a booth with the beautiful redheaded professor, but also that she seems to be accommodating her to the best of her abilities.

“What are _you_ going to teach?” Luisa asks, munching away on one of the colder fries Rose has thrown in her direction before fake choking on it and sticking her tongue out. “You don’t use enough salt.”

“I use _plenty_ of salt.” Rose pushes aside the rest of her fries to find the celery pieces she’d ordered with them. Today, she’s chosen one of the appetizer platters in lieu of an actual meal (because Luisa still hasn’t told her what was wrong with her first order and proceeds to tell her that her order is wrong no matter _what_ she orders). “You just want a heart attack.”

“I am a _medical doctor_,” Luisa replies, munching on one of her own, much warmer, overly salted fries. “I know how much salt I can have, thank you very much, and,” she points one of her ketchup and chili-covered fries in Rose’s direction, and a bit of chili drips onto the table between them, “_you_ didn’t answer my question. What are you going to teach?”

Rose’s eyes watch the chili dripping onto the table and then shift to the window, her arms crossed again. When she continues to not say anything, Luisa realizes she’s somehow made her uncomfortable, although she can’t think of why. “I’m sorry,” she says, putting the fry back on her plate and licking the chili sauce from her fingers. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. I’m not pushing.”

“You’re fine.” Rose shifts her shoulders and glances back to her. “I’m supposed to be teaching a class on Emilia Antonia’s poetry, which normally I would be _excited_ to teach.” She sighs. “It was my specialty when I was finishing my thesis. My students _loved_ it.”

Luisa remembers the laundry session where Rose read her poetry, and she can’t help but smile. “Of course they did. _I’d_ love it.” Her eyes widen. She forces out another question quickly, so as to cover up her comment. “So what’s the difference now?”

Rose’s head tilts to one side, and she gives Luisa a withering stare. For a moment, Luisa isn’t sure whether it’s due to her comment or not, but when Rose responds, she can let out an easy breath.

“Seems to me that it’s a little in bad taste to be teaching a class on one of my fellow professors’ poetry _or_,” and here she smiles, but it holds no mirth, “to be teaching one _on my own_. I might be full of myself, but I’m not _that_ full of myself.”

“I didn’t say you were full of yourself.”

“You didn’t say I wasn’t Emilia Antonia, either.”

Luisa shrugs and leans back against her side of their booth. “How would I know? You might be. All I know is that _I’m_ not.”

“No one who teaches _Alfred Prufrock_ in one of their first college classes could be Emilia Antonia,” Rose says. She pushes her plate to the middle of the table and gestures toward it. “You can have the rest if you want. I’m not that hungry.”

Luisa grins. “You know me too well.” She reaches across and takes one of the celery sticks left on Rose’s plate and then dips it into its caramel sauce before taking a bite. Then she hums with pleasure. “These are _really_ good.”

“I _told_ you.”

“You did. Mind if I—?” Luisa mimes as though to dip the stick in a second time, and Rose waves a hand as though to say _knock yourself out_. Luisa dips it in again and then chews on it thoughtfully for a moment. Then she says, finally, “I don’t think she’d be offended, you know.”

“Who?” Rose asks, her brows furrowed.

“Emilia Antonia.” Luisa pauses for a moment, and her head tilts to one side. What little is left of the celery stick gets waved in the air a bit as she speaks. “_I_ think she would consider it a compliment.” She dips the stick into the caramel sauce again, and it covers the tips of her fingers. “At least, I would. If I were here.” She glances up again. “Which I’m not. As we’ve discussed.”

“_I’d_ be offended,” Rose says, and her blue eyes meet Luisa’s briefly. “I’d be bothered that anyone thought they knew my writing better than I did.”

Luisa pops the rest of the celery stick into her mouth and munches on it as she finishes it. After she swallows, she says, “You don’t seem like the kind of person who would want to be….” She shakes her head and laughs. “Who would want to hide herself, if she published something she was so passionate about.”

Rose leans forward as Luisa licks her fingers again, her arms resting just on the edge of the table. “Are you saying you don’t think I’m Emilia Antonia?”

Luisa’s eyes widen. “_Noooooooooo._” She looks away, down at her hands and then at the still half-eaten plate of food in front of her. “I just think, you know, you wouldn’t be so worried about it if you _were_ her, even if, you know, it might seem a little arrogant, but I think, if you _were_ her, you wouldn’t be so passionate about analyzing and reading and rereading her poetry the way you have been, and I think, maybe, it would be even _more_ arrogant to write a thesis based on your own poetry and how it subverts the readers’ expectations based on what was done in other poetry, so _really_, if you were worried about being considered arrogant, you wouldn’t have done that, but maybe it’s worse because people _know_ Emilia Antonia is going to be teaching here at Sunset and—”

Luisa only stops when Rose reaches over, placing one hand on hers. She jumps a bit, her eyes widening even more as she looks up. “What?”

“You could have just said _yes_.” Rose smiles. “I wouldn’t have been offended.”

Luisa offers her a smile of her own in return. “But I’m _not_ saying yes. I’m saying _no_. Did you forget that part?”

“Well, after all of that rambling, I _might_ have missed it.” Rose’s smile broaden into a grin, and she leans forward the slightest bit before removing her hand from atop Luisa’s. She leans back against the leather cushion of the booth and lets out a sigh. “So if it’s not _you_ and it’s not _me_, then she must be the other new hire.”

“Hm?” Luisa asks, not quite following, her eyes still lingering on her own hand where Rose had been touching hers. “Who must be?”

“Emilia Antonia.”

Luisa’s eyes lift, and she watches as Rose taps a finger along her chin then, almost restless, moves to tap her fingers on the wooden tabletop instead. “It might not be,” Luisa says. “It could be someone else. Someone who already works at Sunset and just…didn’t want to tell anyone.”

“I don’t think so.”’

“But think about it,” Luisa says, taking a deep breath and gripping her edge of the table. “Sunset doesn’t get a lot of press. There aren’t a lot of students. It’s fairly small. They start worrying about it going under. Maybe one of the professors has a big attachment to the school and told them. To save the school, you know?”

“Perhaps.” Rose taps her fingers on the table again, a quick little _tap-tap-tap-tap_. “It doesn’t sound _likely_, but that really _would_ be the best time to come out to the school board – when you _know_ they’re going to be hiring a bunch of new professors. It would easily cover up your involvement. Most people would suspect one of the new hires.”

“Mmhm.” Luisa nods while making the noncommittal noise. It was one of the things she’d thought through before making her formal application to Sunset – how easy it would be to confuse other people as to the nature of her identity. This argument isn’t hard – it’s _intentional_. And even if Rose decides that it’s the other new hire, her eye is at least away from _her_. That’s really the point, isn’t it?

Rose’s head tilts ever so slightly to one side, and her blue eyes sparkle in a way that Luisa hasn’t quite identified yet (although she’s already started trying to figure out how to describe it in her own writing). “I guess we’ll have to wait and see, then, won’t we? Whichever professor – new or old – seems to fit what we expect her to be.”

Luisa can feel her heart clench tight in the middle of her chest, but she nods once in spite of it, forcing a smile on her face. “So what do you think she’s like?” she asks. “Your _Emilia Antonia_.”

“I don’t know,” Rose says, and she looks out the window again with another sigh. “I’ve thought about her a lot, about the sort of person who would write the sort of poetry she does.” When she looks back, her face is carefully controlled, blank. “I’m sure I’ll know her as soon as I meet her.”

“I’m sure you will.” Luisa smiles, trying to keep from chortling over Rose’s words. _No_, she thinks to herself. _No, you didn’t._

“You’re _laughing_ at me.”

“No, I’m not!” Luisa says, pushing her plate to the center of the table as well. “I just think that, most of the time, people you really want to meet don’t always turn out the way you want them to.” She shrugs once. “But I hope that once you find out who she is—” She bites her lower lip before continuing, “ I hope Emilia Antonia lives up to your expectations.”

“She will,” Rose says. She folds her hands together and stretches, and her legs stretch out just enough for her skin to brush against the bare skin of Luisa’s legs. “I’m _sure_ she will.”

Luisa swallows once. “You just have to find her first.”

Rose grins. “I will.”

* * *

It’s another week before anything truly shakes up their new schedule, tentative as it is.

Luisa’s walk to campus is chillier than it has been up to that point. The sky is overcast, the clouds so dark it feels like they could split open with rain at any moment, and there’s a breeze blowing that shivers up the length of her legs, curls around her short skirts, and rests there like mist on a foggy day. It lifts her braid high enough so that it thunks against her back as she walks, and it sets the tiny hairs on the back of her neck on edge. It’s _summer_, but she still feels like she should have worn her mother’s old, forest green sweater along her walk. Hopefully, it’ll be raining when she leaves. The rain will be _cold_, but it’ll be a _good_ sort of cold instead of this _whatever it is_ just sitting and waiting and lingering until something happens.

The world feels tense. Her stomach tenses with it, with that sense of anxiety that she still hasn’t been able to completely do away with.

She could use a drink. (Not…not for _drinking_ but for the warmth it would spread beneath her skin.)

It isn’t even the beginning of _fall_ yet. She shouldn’t be this _chilled_.

And Luisa knows – walking into the building where her office waits on the third floor – that outside it isn’t near as chilly as she thinks it is. The school still has the air conditioner on high, and, as it has every other time she’s come in, it sends a shiver down her spine that rests just at her waist until she grows accustomed to the frigid air. Inside, it is _far_ colder than it is outside, and she hopes that when she makes it to her office and looks outside at the bridge that still hasn’t seen many students, she’ll enjoy the overcast sky and the _hopefully soon_ splatters of rain on her window pane.

It’s at the top of the stairs that she almost runs into someone else – not Rose, as she might have hoped, although that would potentially be a repeat offense from which it would hopefully not take as long to recover – but another woman. This one has skin darker than her own and is thinner than Rose is, with cheekbones just as high and sharp. She flashes Luisa a bright grin and holds out one of her hands.

_Slender fingers_, Luisa thinks before the other woman speaks with a deeply melodic voice.

“Hello,” the woman says. “I’m Florence. I’m one of the new English professors here. It’s a _pleasure_.”

Luisa takes the other woman’s hand in her own and gives it a gentle squeeze. “Florence,” she repeats, tasting the name on her tongue, and her lips spread in a grin that is perhaps slightly awkward. “I’m Luisa, one of the others. The new hires. The _English ones_.” She drops Florence’s hand and presses her lips together, eyes dropping. “Sorry, I’m _no_ good at introductions. I’m _horrible_ with names, too, but,” and here she looks up, giving Florence a gentler smile, “I _think_ I’ll remember yours.” Then she gives her a wink.

Florence runs her hands along the lighter fabric of her skirt and looks down. “Looks like I’m the last of us, then, aren’t I?”

Luisa’s eyes widen. “You’ve met Rose, then?”

“Professor Ruvelle?” Florence asks, and she nods once. “She seems very…closed off.”

Luisa laughs and waves a hand. “She can be like that at first. But she’s probably excited to meet you. I know!” she continues, and she grins a little less awkwardly. “You should come out to lunch with us. We’ve been here a few weeks together, but I think it’s nice for us new kids to all get to know each other a bit before the students get her.” Her head tilts to on side. “And when the other professors get back, they’ll probably have one of those big departmental luncheons so that we can all sit and eat and get to know each other—” Luisa shakes her head. “That makes this sound bad.” She laughs again. “But! I think it’d be nice. All of us. Taking some time together.”

“No, that sounds….” Florence pauses and takes a deep breath before letting her gaze lower so that her eyes can meet Luisa’s. “That sounds really good. The professors at my old school were nothing like this. It would be nice,” she continues, “to have friends.”

Luisa smiles. “Well, then, I’ll get us all set up.” She starts off down the hall towards Rose’s office then pauses, her head turning over her shoulder so that she can see Florence again. “But be warned – Rose is _intent_ on figuring out who Emilia Antonia is, so if it’s you—” She makes a noise with her tongue against her teeth. “Be careful.”

“Oh, I don’t have anything to worry about,” Florence says. “That’s not me at all.”

“It’s not me you have to convince,” Luisa says, but she turns away and continues down the hall so that she can meet Rose. She knocks twice and then enters before waiting for Rose to tell her to do so.

“Have you met Florence?” Rose asks as soon as Luisa enters, and when Luisa nods, she continues, “I think it’s her.” Rose seems unable to keep the smile from crossing her face. “I think she’s Emilia Antonia.”


	6. Florence and Rose and Fried Green Tomatoes

Luisa can only watch as Rose’s focus remains entirely trained on Florence. Sometimes she thinks the other woman won’t blink – _can’t_ – but the way she doesn’t seem to shift her gaze from one woman to the other, the feigned innocence of her head tilted to one side with her red hair cascading ever so gently over her hand, the gentle flicker in her blue eyes as they catch the golden light overhead – it all seemed to suggest that she was _interested_.

As if Luisa hadn’t known that from the moment Rose had confided her belief that _Florence_ was _Emilia Antonia_.

But Florence doesn’t seem to notice any of this at all, or, if she does, she waves it off as though it’s nothing new. She laughs – and it’s such a _nice_ laugh, all brook bubbling the way that so many books and poems and _romance novels_ describe their heroine’s laughter – and _Luisa’s_ laugh sounds like no such thing, sounds like glass breaking under her heel as she walks down the sidewalk outside a bar, like she doesn’t know if someone else dropped it or she did, like the way the light captures broken glass and shines bottleneck green or root beer brown with something like caramel threaded through it – _not bad, but not brook bubbling_. If anything, the sound makes her wonder what Rose’s laugh might sound like – whether it will be bright or dark or somewhere in-between or—

_Certainly_ not that girlish _chuckle_ she just attempted. Luisa isn’t good at pointing out lies or faking, but she thinks she knows Rose well enough at this point – it’s been two weeks, that’s enough time! – to know what her real, happy laugh will sound like when it’s real, and this isn’t real. This is fake!

Of course, it’s fake. She’s trying to look good for Florence – or for _Emilia Antonia_.

Maybe lying about all of this is shooting herself in her own foot. But it’s _necessary_. She can’t give up her anonymity just for a girl she likes. Well. She _can_. But it wouldn’t be a good idea.

“So, what should I order?” Florence asks, her voice smooth and dark and a little bit—

_Ugh._ Luisa can feel herself sinking into trying to write instead of living with the moment she was in. Besides, if she starts thinking like that, she’ll keep painting Florence as the romantic heroine to whatever Rose is, and that could bring on a level of self-fulfilling prophecy that she doesn’t want to invite into her life. Look, if they got together, good for them.

You know.

Good. For. Them.

“Why don’t you ask Luisa?” Rose says, her voice soft, as she nods in Luisa’s direction.

It takes a second for Luisa to bring herself back into the conversation. She blinks a couple of times – pulling herself out of her own thoughts – and looks over to Florence. The other woman looks back at her with big, deep brown eyes, and Luisa is sure that she would have fallen in love with her in a heartbeat, too, if she wasn’t already head over heels pinking for Rose. But then, that’s her way, isn’t it? Falling head over heels for the first pretty girl she locked eyes with in any given setting—

Okay, not _any_ pretty girl. Just. You know. _Most_ pretty girls. Sometimes multiple girls at once. But right now she’s _weeks_ into crushing on Rose – can professors even use that term? – and as much as she _might have_ fallen for both of them if she’d met them at the same time or even within a few days of each other, her feelings for Rose are just…too strong. They just are.

But if anything crushes her crush it’s realizing that Rose can’t have a crush on her – that Rose is already nursing a crush for the gorgeous girl sitting next to her.

_Yes_, next to her.

Luisa and Rose sit across from each other just as they always did, and Rose had seemed to want to sit _across_ from Florence, so Luisa had gestured for their new friend to slide in next to her instead. Which might have been uncomfortable for Florence, who might have wanted to sit across from both of them, but that might have felt like an interview or something, so she might not have—

_Quit overthinking this, Luisa._

“I like their chili cheese fries,” she says. In her mind, it feels like a hundred thousand minutes have passed, but in reality, she’d actually replied fairly quickly.

And yet, Rose’s eyes still widen in something like misunderstanding, and her expression contorts into one of shock – aimed in Luisa’s direction, at least, which means she’d gotten her to look at her again, which is _something_, isn’t it – before turning back to Florence and giving her a smile. “She’s kidding. I assure you, she’s kidding.”

“Not really,” Luisa says. She shouldn’t have said it at all; she can see the anger flickering in Rose’s eyes – _at least she looked at her again!_ – and the muscle that clenches just next to her jaw. That is the worst sign of her anger. She sighs. “Rose wants me to suggest something boring and typical. Their hamburgers are good, although I’d suggest the barbecue one or the pulled pork instead. Unless you like pickles. Oh!” She grins, but it feels a little bit like pulling teeth. “They have fried pickles. And fried green tomatoes. Both of which are very, _very_ good. And appetizers! So you can just eat a little bit while you’re trying to figure out what else you want. _Which_ is also good because some of their food – like the hamburgers, which _aren’t bad_, and the pizza, _which is actually really good_ – get _better_ when you eat them cold for breakfast.”

The rambling. It probably isn’t a good thing. Luisa brushes a scattered strand of hair behind her ear, and her grin fades ever so slightly. Rose won’t want her taking up all of the conversation, and regardless of what Rose wants, Luisa doesn’t want to turn off a potential new friend – and particularly a new coworker – with her incessant rambling. She looks up and meets Florence’s brown eyes with a grin. “Sorry. I ramble sometimes. _Probably_ should work on that before getting to teaching the kids and all, but—” She shrugs and grins – and maybe it’s an awkward grin, but at least it’s a little more relaxed than the one she’d offered her before. “It’s a work in progress.”

“Oh, don’t _apologize_.” Florence giggles – _the brook bubbling again_ – and flops her hand down toward her. “You’re fine. _Really._ I _like_ the ramble! Honest.” Then she bends down over the menu and runs her finger along the offered items. “You’re saying the hamburger’s _no good_—”

“Now, I specifically did _not_ say that—”

“—and that the pizza’s _kind of great_ and that the pulled pork covers what the burgers leave to be desired—” And then Florence’s eyes light up with something like excitement. “_And you mentioned fried green tomatoes._”

Luisa swallows once. “Yes. Yes, I did. You like it?”

“My mom used to cook them all the time when I was growing up! I’ve been _searching_ for a place that cooks them.” Florence smiles. “They won’t be as good as hers – _or mine_ – but it’s nice having a place that _can_ make them so I don’t have to make food all the time myself, you know?”

“_Exactly!_” Luisa grins, feeling a lot more relaxed already. In fact, she can almost be convinced to believe that Rose isn’t sitting across from her until the aforementioned redhead clears her throat. Then she quickly glances over to Rose and smiles. “Something wrong? Oh, wait, I forgot, you don’t like them, do you?”

Rose’s gaze shifts from burning a hole into Luisa’s forehead to sweet and gentle as Florence’s gaze returns to her.

“You don’t like fried green tomatoes?” Florence asks. She sounds disappointed. “You just must not have had any that are really good. Fast food ones are okay, but you’ll have to try some of mine sometime. I’m sure I’ll be able to change your mind.”

Luisa winces, but Rose grins. “I’ll take you up on that offer,” the redhead replies. “Any day.”

So that backfired.

Not that Luisa’d really had a plan when she brought them up, but if she had, it certainly wouldn’t have been to give Rose an excuse to go over to Florence’s house for fried green tomatoes. Which Rose will lie and say she likes regardless of whether she does or not because she wants Florence to like her.

…or she wants _Emilia Antonia_ to like her.

_Why is this so confusing?_

Florence turns back to Luisa while she’s thinking all of this. “You should come, too.” Her smile is soft and kind. “We can turn it into a party,” she continues, glancing over to Rose as her smile broadens. “The three new professors all hanging out together, just like today.” Her eyes meet Luisa’s. “What do you think?”

_I think that’s a great idea_, Luisa wants to say. She tries to keep her eyes focused on Florence instead of letting them shift to Rose, but it’s impossible to keep from checking in with the redhead to see what she thought. “I don’t know,” Luisa says instead, her gaze moving over to Rose, whose head is tilted to one side, watching her curiously. As Luisa meets her eyes, they widen briefly, incessant, but when Florence turns to look at her, that expression immediately changes to a much softer one, with a much brighter smile.

Luisa sighs. “You still have to move all of your stuff in and get set up,” she says, turning back to Florence, “and once classes begin, we all might get really busy.” She brushes her hair back out of her face, her eyes shifting back to Rose again and then returning to Florence. “I’m not sure it’s a great idea.”

Florence thinks about that, and while she does, the waitress appears. She takes their orders – Luisa goes with the chili cheese fries she’d suggested, even though they’re relatively messy; Rose orders a chicken salad with a vinaigrette dressing and a side of sliced apples with caramel sauce; and Florence, ordering last, goes with a tomato pizza with pesto sauce and a full platter of fried green tomatoes. “We can share,” she says with a smile and then pauses, turning to Rose, “or not, since you don’t like them.”

“I don’t _dis_like them,” Rose lies. “They just aren’t my favorite. Maybe they’ll taste better with the salad.”

Luisa rolls her eyes. When she’d had them before, Rose spat out the one bite she’d had and called them the worst thing she’d tasted in years. But, then again, Luisa thinks salad with vinaigrette is one of the worst things _she’s_ tasted, so maybe if Rose covers the tomatoes with it, she’ll be fine. Still sounds nasty to her, though.

The fried green tomatoes arrive first, and Florence grins with pleasure as she bites into one. “These actually aren’t that bad!” she exclaims. She takes another one and gestures towards Luisa with it. “They still aren’t as good as mine are, but they’re worth getting when I don’t want to cook. I’m glad you mentioned them.”

“You’re welcome.” Luisa grins. By now, it seems like Florence has forgotten about the party idea entirely. It’s probably a good thing. As much as Luisa wants to interfere in whatever it is Rose wants to do with Florence, it isn’t her place. Or…it _is_ and she has _every right_, but if she does, all that will do is piss off Rose and ruin any chance _she_ had with her. If she has a chance. Which isn’t looking likely right now.

Luisa and Florence make their way through the platter of fried green tomatoes, making sure to leave some for Rose, but when their meals get there, Rose avoids what’s left for her, instead focusing entirely on her salad. Not that either of the other professors mind. In fact, they are focused on their meals as well.

“So – Luisa and Rose,” Florence says, nodding to each of them as they eat, “what were y’all doing before y’all got here? Did y’all teach somewhere else, or is this your first teaching gig?”

Luisa looks over to Rose to see if she wants to speak first, only to see Rose leaning back against the leather bench. She can feel Rose’s shoe brushing against her leg as she crosses her legs under the table, and she has to swallow to keep herself from thinking it’s at all intentional – and to keep herself from thinking of Rose’s long legs crossed under the table. _This is hard._ Her lips press together to keep her from speaking in Rose’s place.

“I completed my master’s a few months ago,” Rose says, pushing her glasses back into place. “I taught a few classes while I was studying, but this is the first real job I’ve had. I was lucky.” Her blue eyes meet Florence’s brown ones. “The job market isn’t great, and this one opened up just in time.”

“Were you worried you wouldn’t get the gig?” Florence asks.

Rose shakes her head. “Not at all. I’m good at what I do, and I have amazing recommendations.” She glances to Luisa as though giving her permission to speak.

This would be hard, too. “I haven’t done much teaching,” Luisa says, hesitant, choosing her words carefully. “English was my second major in college, and I did more with my other degree first.” She knows they will ask, so she continues before they can. “I was a medical doctor for a while, but I wasn’t very good at it. I left that to try and do this, and Sunset must have been really desperate to hire me.” She smiles. “Or they thought it was worth taking a shot on me.” This time, she shrugs and turns to Florence. “Is this your first job?”

Luisa can see that Florence wants to ask her questions about being a doctor, but the other professor seems to be respecting her decision to not talk about it any further. She isn’t worried about Rose asking. Rose hasn’t really cared about any of this before now, so there’s no reason to think she will now. Besides, she’s sure Rose is much more interested in how Florence will respond anyway. But as she glances in Rose’s direction, she can see that the redhead is staring at her with wide, bright eyes, as though she is shocked by something.

It doesn’t matter, though. Rose’s attention is immediately grabbed by Florence, who says, her head lowering, “No, it’s not my first job,” with a tone of voice that suggests it isn’t a particularly happy story.

Luisa picks up one of her chili cheese fries and twists it between her fingers. “What happened?”

“My other coworkers didn’t like me very much.” Florence presses the palms of her hands on the table and pushes downwards. “You were a doctor,” she says, nodding towards Luisa. “I’m sure not all of your patients liked you.” She reaches over, patting Luisa’s thigh, avoiding her chili cheese stained fingers. “Not because you weren’t good. I know you said you weren’t, but I’m sure you were. But patients – and students – can be horrible.” She shrugs. “Other professors can be, too.”

Luisa takes a bite of her fries and swallows. “We haven’t met any of the other professors here yet,” she says, trying to meet Rose’s eyes. “Or, at least, _I_ haven’t. Rose might have. I think she’s on campus more than me, and she’s been here longer than I have. But I don’t know if they’re nice or not yet. Rose is!” She grins. “At least, she’s been mostly nice to me. We had a bit of a bump in the road when I poured coffee all over her—”

“You did _what_?”

“It was an accident!” Luisa meets Rose’s eyes again from across the table. “_Tell her_ it was an accident.”

Rose just shrugs. “It was an accident. _Ruined_ my blouse.” She smiles, just that slightest little tug at the edge of her lips. “I might have held that one against her. _For a little bit._”

Luisa leans back against the booth and crosses her arms. “She wouldn’t return my shirt for _weeks_, and I think she only did then because she caught me glaring at her.”

“You weren’t glaring.”

“_Close enough._” Luisa stabs a fry in Rose’s direction and then turns to Florence, shaking her head. “We had a shaky start, and we’re still friends, so even if _no one else_ likes you, you’ll still have us.” Her head tilts ever so gently to one side. “Or me. You’ll still have me. I’m _horrible_ at hating people. I don’t know about Rose here. She obviously still holds a grudge for that shirt of hers.”

“I don’t—!”

Then Florence giggles – that sound of brook bubbling yet again – and Rose stops immediately. Luisa can see her fingers itching to drum against the table, but there’s none of that, only Rose looking across to her to see if she can figure out what’s going on. But Florence just continues to giggle, wiping one hand under her eyes. “You two are _perfect_.”

Rose looks from Florence to Luisa. “I think perfect is a _bit_ of an exaggeration.”

“No, no, you’re _perfect_.” Florence grins. “I think changing jobs and coming here was a good idea, even if it was just to be with you two.” She pushes her empty plate into the middle of the table, where Rose’s already waited. “And it’s good to know that I’ll still have you – or _one_ of you, at any rate – if something happens.” She stretches, leaning backwards until her back gives a slight pop, and then she sighs. “I should probably go. Luisa’s _right_ – I _do_ need to get my office set up. There’s only two weeks until freshman orientation, after all, and those weeks will probably go fast.” She scoots out of the bench. “I can pay at the front, right?”

“Yeah!” It feels like an abrupt conclusion to Luisa, but she isn’t going to say that out loud.

Florence bends across the table. “And we’ll _definitely_ have that group party. I want to cook you the best fried green tomatoes before school starts. Okay?” She doesn’t wait for their answers, only offering them a small, gentle smile before leaving.

Luisa looks over and meets Rose’s eyes. “I can skip the party, if you want.”

“No, no, you’re fine.” Rose waves one hand at her and then hesitates. “She didn’t mention Emilia Antonia at all.”

“She wants to keep it a secret.”

“I thought _everyone_ would want to try and figure out who she is,” Rose says, head tilting to one side. “Maybe it’s just me.”

Luisa sighs. “Maybe other people respect her privacy.” She reaches over and gives Rose a gentle shove. “Besides, you’ve found her, haven’t you? So why’s it such a big deal?”

Rose shakes her head. “I don’t know.” She lets out a huge breath and smiles. “She’s amazing, isn’t she?”

“Yeah. _Amazing._” Luisa stands up, brushing her hand along her shorts. “And you’re going to have to find a way to convince her that you like fried green tomatoes. Good luck.”

But Rose keeps a straight face. “You’d be surprised. I can convince anyone of anything.”

Well, Luisa would like to see her try. Fortunately, she won’t have to wait long to see it.


End file.
